


say something (I'm giving up on you)

by arturas



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Fluff, Healthy Relationships, Love, Other, Peachshipping, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, implied songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27018073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arturas/pseuds/arturas
Summary: A long-forgotten shoebox leads to an uncomfortable realisation for Anzu.Or: despite the implications of the song in the title, sometimes the person you're giving up on is yourself.
Relationships: Mazaki Anzu | Tea Gardner/Mutou Yuugi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	say something (I'm giving up on you)

**Author's Note:**

> Minor warnings for reference to Sugoroku's passing and mentions of depression/depersonalisation/etc. No actual lyrics feature in the story (I am not very fond of "classic"/diegetic songfics) but if you're after the version of the song that pushed me into writing this story out properly, it's here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dYlvdLdK9w 
> 
> As always - concrits loved. No beta, all mistakes are mine.

Anzu knew it had been a bad idea to start cleaning out the attic-room cupboard.

It wasn’t a bad idea because that it was a Saturday and that she’d inevitably be called down to help in the shop when an unexpected rush hit, leaving the job half-done for probably another month or two (she’d been putting off doing this for ages already and bursts of cleaning inspiration very rarely came close together). It wasn’t a bad idea because they had plenty of storage space already – it was only her and Yugi there, now, and she hadn’t gone on one of her infamous shopping sprees in more than a year – and certainly didn’t _need_ the cupboard to be cleaned out. It wasn’t even a bad idea because she had somehow completely forgotten that the attic room had once been Yugi’s bedroom and by extension _their_ bedroom, at least when Sugoroku had still been living here, and thus was still stuffed full of all the bric-a-brac she’d brought from her own home but never quite gotten around to unpacking.

No, Anzu thinks numbly, it had been a bad idea because – as usual – she had jumped headfirst into things without really thinking about them first.

Her hands are still frozen upon the open shoebox. Nestled within, a familiar pair of worn and battered pair of pointe shoes lay carelessly atop a pile of long-forgotten dancewear.

A bad idea, indeed.

* * *

She hadn’t meant to leave them there for so long. She hadn’t meant to leave them there at all, not really; it was a temporary thing, a short-term pause. Somewhere between Duellist Kingdom and flying to Egypt – _Egypt!_ – dancing had lost its place as the Most Important Thing in Anzu’s life. That place had been usurped by her friends, by saving the world (multiple times), by adventures and travel and a familiar yet dangerous pair of red-tinged violet eyes.

It was only meant to be temporary. Short-term. Mme Aiko had made it very clear that there would always be a place for Anzu in her school. But, well, sham tournaments and apocalyptic cults and ancient artefacts weren’t exactly _known_ for running to convenient schedules, while dance schools _were_.

‘I shall keep you as understudy, of course,’ Mme Aiko had said, ‘and perhaps if your – _study_ trip finishes early enough, I shall see if Hinata wishes a rest for one of the matinee shows.’

It had hurt more than Anzu had thought it would. She’d known it would happen sooner or later; first Duellist Kingdom, then America and the Orichalcos (Battle City had come between those, of course, but Kaiba had practically had the entire city shut down for the duration so the net effect was that nothing changed that time). Once was excusable. Twice was worrisome. A third time was a pattern, and a “study trip” to Egypt with no firm return date was simply a bridge too far.

‘Please do keep up your practice, between the visits to the pyramids,’ Mme Aiko had said, as Anzu had given halting thanks through choked-back tears. Her steely gaze had softened ever so slightly. ‘I’ve told you before, girl, that you have a simply marvellous natural talent for dance. It would be such a shame to see it go to nothing. Enjoy your travels, and I shall look forwards to seeing you back in the studio when you return.’

Anzu had always intended to return after the trip. It was why she made no effort to properly store the shoes, why she threw them in haphazardly on top of the tights and leotards and spare laces before shoving the entire box into her closet and packing for the flight to Egypt. She was a dancer. She would _be_ a dancer. She would accompany her friends to Egypt, assist the Pharaoh in recovering his name, and then things could return to how they had used to be. How they _should_ be. She still remembered that digital dream, of flying through the air as Yugi watched enraptured and Yami watched approvingly, and she knew – _knew_ , with the certainty of youth and confidence borne of things _always_ having ended well before – that she would return from Egypt with a renewed passion and a much more _local_ schedule.

Then she returned from Egypt with one fewer friend, with all the words she’d wanted to say for so long still unsaid, and all of their lives had changed without notice once again.

* * *

She takes the shoes out one at a time. Carefully, like they’re made of glass instead of cloth and cardboard, like the first thing she hadn’t done upon getting them new was to crack the shanks and spend an hour or two drilling _releves_ until they softened up properly. But that would have been… wow. Six years ago at least, maybe seven. Maybe even eight.

Anzu’s world rocks for a moment, like a ship in a storm. When the wave passes she is still sitting on the floor of Yugi’s old bedroom with a pair of battered, worn-out pointe shoes in her hands.

* * *

The weeks after their return had been a haze for all of them. Yami – _Atem_ – had been such an intrinsic part of their lives that to adjust to his sudden departure had been… well. Difficult was putting it too mildly. Especially since to the world around them, nothing much had changed at all.

There’d been those that noticed, of course. It was to be expected. There had been so many people whose lives had been affected by his presence that it was stupid to think they would have missed his departure. Letters came to the Game Shop from the Ishtars, from Industrial Illusions, from America and even stranger far-off places, all with notes of thanks mixed with sorrow and well-wishes.

None of the letters had managed to inspire more than a small lump in Anzu’s throat. She, who wore her heart on her sleeve even more blatantly than Yugi himself. Mazaki Anzu, who had cried at least once in every adventure they’d ever been on, for things so much less important than this. But it was as if she’d been pulled out of the world and into her own little slipstream. All the emotions and the grief and the pain were left in the real world and she was left here, in her own little bubble of numbness, able to see all her emotions but not feel them. Not _live_ them. She hadn’t been able to cry since they farewelled him in that goddamned tomb and for the life of her, she couldn’t bring herself to even try.

She hadn’t returned the studio. She couldn’t face it, not knowing there’d always be an empty seat in the front row at recitals. She tried to keep up with her stretches, tried to keep drilling barefoot, but her legs felt so stiff and clunky and really, was there a point? She felt awkward and ungainly now. Heavy. Weighed down. Dancing was no longer a release but a burden; a chore, not a distraction.

Days became weeks, weeks became months.

Her parents, privately thrilled at her apparent “maturity” in choosing to focus on her studies, saw nothing wrong. They didn’t see the numbness, they didn’t see the void. They were still in the real world. Anzu was still in the slipstream. But it was quiet and safe and things hurt so much less there, so she stayed.

It had been maybe three or four months after Egypt that Yugi had cornered her on the school roof. He was grieving, too, even more than she was, but he was _Yugi_ – he was her best and oldest friend – and if there was one thing about Yugi that would never change, it was that he was absolutely incorrigible when it came to looking after those around him before he looked after himself.

‘You’re not okay,’ he said, and it was the first time Anzu could ever remember him being so straightforward right off the bat. For a moment she’d thought she was seeing Yami again (he hadn’t been Atem when they knew him – when _she_ knew him – so he would always be Yami to her).

She’d blinked, a little stunned. ‘Well, no. You’re not, either.’

‘None of us are. But you’re _really_ not okay.’ He’d taken her elbow – gently, proof that it was indeed still Yugi – and guided her to the air-con ducts. They’d made for a dusty and uncomfortable seat but it was better than standing. ‘Anzu, you haven’t cried _once_ since we got back, and I’m worried about you.’

‘Isn’t not crying a good thing?’ She hadn’t even bothered to try for a joking tone; she just didn’t have the energy. She hadn’t for weeks. Besides, it was Yugi – if anyone could see through her, he could, and the fact that they were having this conversation at all meant that there was no real point in staving off the inevitable.

‘Not when it’s you. Even _Jounouchi_ says it’s weird to see you so quiet.’

Anzu had still been deep in the slipstream that day. This was a conversation she knew was bound to happen sooner or later but it wasn’t one she _wanted_ to have. Not today, not ever. Her bubble of numbness was safe and comforting and easy. Routine. ‘I thought he said it was weird that he was starting to feel his ears again.’

Yugi had flushed slightly. ‘Paraphrasing. In any case, he’s right. You’re not okay. You’re not yourself.’

‘None of us are.’

His hand, which had remained on her elbow once they sat, shifted to squeeze her own hand. ‘But especially you.’

Her emotions were hammering on the glass wall now, bubbling up from below but blocked before they could burst at the surface. Still distanced. Still not real. It was so much easier when nothing felt real. She knew better, of course, just like she knew that something not _feeling_ real was very much removed from something not _being_ real, but still –

‘I miss him, too,’ Yugi had said, so softly that she almost didn’t hear it. ‘So much. _So_ much, Anzu; I didn’t think I could miss someone this much. But…’ He’d taken a moment to compose himself and taken both of Anzu’s hands in his. ‘But I miss you, too. And I know – I know things won’t ever quite be like they used to –’

Of course not. Back then, in the before, things were good. There was hope, and dreams, and all the possible futures laid out in front of them like an album of photos, and now there was –

‘– and I know it will always hurt, at least a little –’

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t _right_ ; they were the heroes, weren’t they? The heroes were meant to get the happily-ever-afters and the living and the _futures_ –

‘– and I know… I know you weren’t really there to speak to me.’

The first crack appeared in the glass. The first bubble broke the surface. The slipstream was coming closer to Earth again, and she wasn’t ready for it.

‘I know you wanted to talk to him. I wanted to talk to him, too, but I couldn’t. You could have. But you didn’t.’

‘Stop,’ she’d whispered.

‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Tears had begun to run down his cheeks and, gods help her, Anzu had felt her eyes beginning to burn too. Typical; it was _such_ an Anzu thing to cry over her friends crying but not cry for herself. ‘I thought and I thought and for an hour or two I almost thought I hated you because maybe – maybe if you’d talked to him – maybe he would’ve stayed. But when he walked through that door I knew… I know… there’s nothing _anyone_ could have said that would have made him stay. Nothing.’ He’d hiccupped and pulled a hand away to hurriedly wipe his cheeks. ‘And I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts. But he’s – he’s completely gone, and you’re not, and I’ve been missing you so much it hurts too. Please, Anzu –’

‘Stop,’ she’d repeated. Or tried to repeat. It came out as a choked whimper. And then the glass had shattered, the bubbles had burst, and the numbness was replaced with the most searing and burning pain she thought she’d ever felt.

She’d bawled into Yugi’s jacket for the better part of an hour. The burning never really let up; the one time she thought it might she’d then realised that her back was damp as well and that had set of a whole new wave of painful sobbing.

Yugi. God-damned _Yugi_. Incorrigible to a fault and forever more worried about his friends, about _her_ , than himself, though none of _them_ had lost the other part of their soul or the red tinge in their eyes.

Yugi stayed there with her until she could physically cry no more, then a little longer still until she could actually kind of talk again. Things weren’t better immediately of course (how could they be?), but that day on the roof-top had been the start of a slow ascent from the lonely darkness she hadn’t really realised she was slipping into. And beside her, every step of the way, was her best and oldest friend.

He’d stayed up late nights with her when she simply couldn’t sleep, a safe and warm voice on the phone talking about everything and nothing at the same time. He’d roped her into helping out at the Game Shop on the weekends, sometimes – she’d balked and pleaded but he’d held firm. It would do her good to keep busy, he’d decided, and his grandfather really did make the most wonderful cups of tea. Sometimes Jounouchi or Honda would be there too and for those few hours it was almost like things hadn’t changed at all. She’d pulled ears when their bickering got unreasonably loud, laughed when an errant mouse had seen Honda trapped up a step-ladder for the better part of five minutes, rolled her eyes at the faces pulled behind the backs of unreasonable customers.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the slipstream faded back to join the rest of the world.

Almost a year after their fateful trip to Egypt, Anzu had carefully – without putting _too_ much thought into the words – messaged Yugi to ask if he’d like to accompany her to the movies. It was hardly the first time but normally she would message the group all together, or at the very least just ask during lunch breaks (though with final exams coming up, those breaks were far shorter than they’d once been). She was careful not to say _not_ to invite anyone else. It was entirely possible she was misunderstanding things and even more likely that she was making a mistake, a colossal and friendship-changing mistake, but she had to do _something_.

Fortunately Yugi had arrived alone and, somewhere between the baby turning into a mouse and the train-journey out to the witch’s sister, Anzu found their hands intertwined and a not-unpleasant warmth in her chest.

The rest, as they say, was history.

* * *

The shoes are pink, the same as practically all of her dancewear. The toes are scuffed and nearly worn through; the ribbon-laces are frayed at the ends and stretched thin in more that one spot. Anzu gingerly feels the boxes – they’re both still intact, somehow, though the right one is definitely in worse condition than the left.

Eight years, she thinks, somewhat numbly. How can it have been eight years?

Eight years ago she bought these shoes, with her very first (and very nearly last) paycheque from Burger World. Her parents had made it clear that she was expected to study more in her final years of schooling and while Mme Aiko was kind enough to let her pay for classes in the form of teaching the children’s courses (and quite a bit of cleaning), it had fallen to her to finance her own equipment.

She remembers being so _proud_ of herself as she carried them home. These shoes were proof that she _could_ turn her dancing into the career she dreamed of, proof that she _wasn’t_ wasting her time with her training and drilling and stretching, proof that if she just worked hard enough and kept pushing she could achieve anything she wanted. All she had to do was keep at it. Keep pushing. Not give up.

The world rocks again.

Eight years, thinks Anzu, very numbly.

* * *

It had taken the better part of a year for Anzu to properly return from the slipstream and while it hurt to admit it, by the time she was in any position to even consider returning to the studio, things had changed. For one, she was out of practice. _Badly_ out of practice. She couldn’t return to Mme Aiko like this, short of breath and cramping from a mere half-hour of warm-up drills in slippers; she hadn’t even bothered trying her pointe shoes back on. No. She needed to find her old form again, she’d decided, and _then_ she would return to the studio.

Fortunately she was easily able to keep herself occupied on weekends now. Although he’d never admit it, Sugoroku hadn’t exactly been getting younger, and the occasional weekend shifts when new products arrived had gradually become more and more frequent as time passed. Not that she was really complaining. He really did make the most wonderful cups of tea. Besides, it meant more time with Yugi, and she was never about to turn down _that_ kind of opportunity.

The first time she’d realised that maybe something was wrong was when they’d discussed plans for after school. She’d almost said that she would be auditioning in New York out of habit before remembering that she wasn’t even _practicing_ anymore, let alone worthy of auditioning to anything so prestigious as New York City Ballet, and the realisation had almost been enough to make her cry. She’d been dreaming of it for so long that it had almost become a given in her mind. Not a dream, nothing so far-fetched or crazy as that, but just the natural consequence of things.

Yet here she was, having not been in the studio for more than a year, and only just starting to practice drills again at home. Sometimes. When she wasn’t at the Game Shop, or studying, or with Yugi.

‘I’m not sure,’ she’d finally said, carefully. ‘I guess – I hadn’t thought about it much, actually. God, isn’t that so stupid?’

Yugi, who’d almost always known her too well for his own good, had reached for her hand almost immediately. ‘Not at all. It’s more stupid that we’re expected to decide what we’ll do for the rest of our lives before we can even buy alcohol, don’t you think?’

She’d laughed. There’d been a bit of a tremble to it, but it had definitely been a laugh. ‘Because alcohol is really known for _improving_ decisions.’ Then, before things could get too awkward: ‘You?’

‘Honestly, I don’t really know, either.’ He’d bit his lip. ‘I thought – I mean, I still _want_ to study archaeology. That hasn’t changed. But Jii-chan’s been needing so much help lately and I just don’t –’

She’d squeezed his hand. ‘I’m here, too, don’t forget.’

‘But –’

‘Yugi, I’m not going anywhere.’ She’d leaned forwards and kissed him – chastely, gently. Support and comfort. ‘And let’s be realistic – you at least _have_ an idea of what you want to do next, you know?’ She _had_ an idea; it just wasn’t going to happen. Not in the next twelve months, at least.

He’d stroked her cheek. Another chaste kiss. ‘It just doesn’t seem fair to ask so much of you.’

‘It’s not asking; I’m offering.’ Things had crystallised with such speed that it almost seemed natural – like it was what she’d been thinking all along, almost. ‘I’m not going to waste time or money studying something that I’m not sure of, you know? There’s no point rushing into anything. We’ve got time. I can work for a bit, get a bit of savings going, and I can take the lead in helping Jii-chan while you’re studying. And if I figure out what I want to do…’

‘Then I’d do the same, in a heartbeat.’ He’d nudged his nose against hers. ‘We’re in this together. Always.’

She’d smiled. She’d actually meant it, too. It wasn’t New York and it wasn’t how she’d imagined things going but it was how things _were_ going and – to her great surprise – she’d actually felt kind of okay with that. Relieved, almost, for reasons she didn’t really want to think about right now. ‘Always,’ she said. ‘I love you, you know that?’

‘I know I love _you_ ,’ he’d replied, along with a much less chaste kiss, and despite the background sense of disappointment Anzu had felt okay. Somehow. Yugi had always had a way of making everything feel okay and while their lives were much less perilous now, that hadn’t changed.

Sometimes there was still the phantom hint of regret that his eyes weren’t tinged with crimson. No, not regret; disappointment. But it was just a reflex, she knew, like twisting Jounouchi’s ears when he said something stupid, or saying she would audition for New York after graduation. It was just a reflex left over from a closed chapter of her life and as time passed, it had faded more and more, and she was okay with that.

She was okay with that. For now, at least.

They graduated, and Yugi was accepted for further study, and Anzu kept drilling _releves_ in slippers between Game Store shifts and job applications.

* * *

God, this had been _such_ a bad idea.

Carefully, as if they’re made of glass, Anzu puts the shoes back into the box and closes the lid. Her hands are trembling a little. This is stupid, this is ridiculous, this is – a pair of _shoes_ , for God’s sake! She’s not a dumb kid anymore, she’s a grown woman. A grown woman who made choices and was happy and _gave up_.

The thought is so violent, so unexpectedly vicious, that it makes her gasp aloud. Her legs twitch as if to kick the intrusion away but only succeed in upending her forgotten cup of tea.

She should jump up for a cloth. She should pick up the cup before it can empty out entirely. She should do anything but sit here, watching numbly, as the cooling green liquid spreads out across the floor.

 _Such_ a bad idea.

* * *

At first things had gone… well, exactly as she’d thought they would. Yugi took to academic life with gusto, she successfully found a part-time office job, and her practice progressed appropriately. She still hadn’t brought out the pointe shoes but she’d thought that was probably for the best – her parents had long since redone the floors to carpet and it was almost certainly better conditioning to just use the slippers.

Then – not long after she and Yugi had tentatively begun discussing maybe renting an apartment together – the fall had happened.

It wasn’t a bad fall, not really, and Jounouchi had been down in the storage-room with him when it happened so medical attention was prompt, but it had still resulted in a fractured hip ( _not broken_ , Sugoroku had insisted, _just fractured_ – like it made a difference, somehow). At his age that meant surgery. And surgery meant medical bills, meant time he wouldn’t be able to run the shop, meant recovery periods and assistance just to stand and a lot of other things that an independent man like Sugoroku _loathed_.

Really, Anzu had thought, it was a good thing that she hadn’t gone to New York. Not yet, anyway.

One not-really-a-discussion later she had found herself packing her life into a series of boxes while Yugi traded in his single bed for a double. It had been an easy decision – not really a decision at all, just the natural consequence of things – and more importantly, it had been the _right_ decision. By the time Surogoku had been cleared to leave the hospital she’d been living at the Game Store for a month and it felt so right she could have forgotten ever living anywhere else. Yugi had still been studying, of course, so she’d taken on the lion’s share of management duties (Yugi joked that it was a good thing she’d been so involved with the student council in high school; he wasn’t nearly organised enough to keep things going so smoothly).

It had seemed only natural for her drilling to become less frequent. She had so many other things on her plate now – the shop, keeping them all fed, her own job, keeping them all sane – and while it was certainly enjoyable it just wasn’t _productive_ at the moment. Time had been at a premium. And it had only been meant to be for a little while. Just six months, a year, maybe two. Maybe until Yugi graduated, at the outside. More time to practice would hardly be a _bad_ thing. It wasn’t as if ballet companies had upper age limits. Mme Aiko had always said that there was no such thing as an ex-dancer, merely a dancer who hadn’t kept up with their practice.

There hadn’t been much time to move her things in properly. Not when there’d been safety rails that needed installing in the bathroom, or inventory to manage, or payrolls to be run (the older group only ever took payment in tea, biscuits and the occasional meal, but Shizuka had worked regular shifts for months now and the casual manager Otogi had recommended certainly didn’t work for charity). It was another thing that just hadn’t been important at the time. Something to be handled later, when things had calmed down a little.

Six months became a year, a year became two, and by the time Yugi was getting ready to head off on his final-year dig she still hadn’t gotten around to unpacking the overstuffed attic-room cupboard.

* * *

When the tea touches her toes Anzu finally snaps out of her trance and rises, trembling only a little, to her feet.

Stupid. So absolutely _stupid_.

She makes her way to the kitchen in a determined daze. A floor below, she can just hear the noise of the shop and a familiar voice gives her pause – it’s a Saturday, that’s right; Yugi’s in the country and running the show today while Shizuka takes a well-earned rest. The girl is _definitely_ Katsuya’s younger sister. Only a Jounouchi would think it smart to combine medical studies with an occasionally full-time shop management role, and only a Jounouchi could remain so cheerful and full of energy despite it. Or maybe that’s simply the exuberance of youth and the security of working towards something that feels actually worthwhile.

As she pulls a roll of paper towels from beneath the sink, she glimpses a cut-out square magnetised to the fridge: a job advertisement, for a part-time dance teacher down at the local youth centre. Yugi’s doing. He’s the one who goes through all their mail on the grounds that she dealt with enough mail at her day job; he was the one who had carefully clipped out the square on the grounds that Anzu really had been a wonderful teacher and it might be nice to have something that wasn’t the store to keep her busy when he travelled for digs.

She turns the kettle on before heading back up the stairs to clean up her mess. A fresh cup is definitely in order. And maybe a trip to the bathroom to wash her face, too – she seems to have gotten some tea on her cheek in the spill, and it would be _so_ embarrassing to have to explain that it was all over a single worn-out pair of shoes.

* * *

It really hadn’t been that long of a trip – a month, a month and a half, something like that – and honestly, even though she’d cried seeing him off at the airport, Anzu had been ever so slightly relieved. Calls took less time than curling up together each night. They were more impersonal, true, but the space… it was nice. Just for a little while, anyway.

She’d decided before he’d started packing. She was going to return to Mme Aiko’s. Perhaps not as wonderful as she’d once been, perhaps more wonderful than she’d once been, but it didn’t matter. She _needed_ to return, _needed_ to be pushed and encouraged and all those other horrible, productive things that ancient ballerinas forced upon their pupils. There just simply wasn’t any other way she could progress. She _needed_ that pressure.

Discovering that Mme Aiko’s academy had ceased trading more than a year ago had been a _severe_ blow to her plans.

She’d stood numbly on the sidewalk for what seemed like forever. A café? Mme Aiko’s pride and joy was now a _café_? Well – a café and a boutique florist, _and_ a small fashion outlet store, but _still_. Was there no respect for the blisters formed upon the hard wooden floors? No respect for the aching calves and burning hip flexors of dancers past?

She’d seen the _Opening Special!_ sign in the window of the boutique, the regulars sat at the café bar, and had been struck dumb by the realisation that she hadn’t so much as contacted the studio in actual, literal _years_. She’d thought about it, of course, but had never really _done_ anything about it. Was Mme Aiko retired? Travelling? _Dead_?

How had she let it go so long?

She’d turned on her heel eventually, striding back home with something between purpose and dismay. Private auditions were a thing. Not a _common_ thing, but a thing nonetheless. She’d been a star pupil for near a full decade and ballet was hardly something that changed quickly – she just had to keep practicing, with purpose this time. Not just for a return; for a _discovery_.

There’d been a discovery, all right.

Unfortunately, it had nothing to do with Anzu’s dancing.

* * *

The tea is easily cleaned up. There was no milk, and the wooden flooring is sealed, but Anzu still sprays and wipes until the paper towels come to pieces in her hands. It never hurts to be sure.

One corner of the box is damp, now. She tries to decide if she needs a new box or to throw the thing and its contents away without ever opening it again and she finds she can’t quite make up her mind. It’s stupid ( _so_ much has been stupid today). Eight-year-old, already-worn pointes are worth nothing to anyone. She hasn’t drilled properly in – wow, months? – and it’s been even longer since she bothered to dig out shoes for the occasion. Socks and quick bursts while washing dishes or putting away laundry have been the way things are for… for too long, now. Yet to throw them away entirely seems so _final_. A decision so much bigger than one over the old contents of an older shoebox.

Anzu bites her lip, dabs at the dry floor one more time to be sure, and returns to the kitchen.

‘I see your cleaning’s going well,’ Yugi says, glancing up from the fridge with a soft smile. He’s got a can of soda out and – yes, there’s a few beads of sweat by his brow. Must be starting to get busy. Or not, since he’s in the kitchen instead of in the shop.

She forces herself to smile. It’s not forced, not _really_ , but it certainly doesn’t feel genuine. Before he has the chance to look too closely she bustles over to the sink and begins to wash her hands. ‘Tea’s mostly water anyway and it smells nicer than bleach. Quiet?’

‘Briefly. Figured I’d stock up before the real rush starts.’ He takes a few gulps from the can. ‘Probably another hour, maybe? Think you’ll be done by then?’

She thinks of the cardboard box, one corner slightly damp now. ‘Not even close. It’s more of a long-term project though, I think – I’d forgotten just how much we’d shoved in there.’

‘I could’ve sworn you said it would only be until later in the week.’

Anzu teeters on the precipice. Just for a moment. The world rocks again, another wave crashes, and when it dies down she’s back in the safety of the slipstream. ‘You know how I am with schedules.’

‘Late at the earliest and if you’re running to time you’ll get distracted and make yourself late anyway.’ He tucks a second can into his back pocket, closes the fridge and loops away from the exit to pass by her at the sink. He pauses there for a moment – cooled hand resting gently on her hip, a butterfly-light kiss to her cheek – and then he’s on the move again. ‘And yet I love you regardless. Maybe I should’ve told you a half-hour instead.’

She can’t roll her eyes. She can’t even smile properly. But she keeps her tone light, playful almost, as she says to the sink, ‘I can tell _time_ , you know.’

Yugi laughs as he heads back down to the shop.

Anzu finishes washing her hands and makes another cup of tea in silence. Slowly, carefully she eases herself out of the slipstream as the noise builds back up downstairs. It’s ridiculous and childish and so gods-damned _stupid_ that she can barely believe herself but – God, how can she be _twenty-four_ now and still so immature and foolish? How can she be twenty-four now, full stop?

Yes; she _will_ head to the bathroom. She simply can’t help out in the shop with so much tea on her face.

* * *

She’d known it was bad but she hadn’t fully realised how bad it was until Yugi arranged for an early return from the dig. The word _tumour_ just seemed so… vague. Nonthreatening. Survivable. Honestly, looking back on it, she’d probably blocked out or ignored the _stage four_ , _terminal_ , _non-operable,_ _I’m so sorry_.

Picking up a dusty, tear-stained, emotionally and physically exhausted Yugi at the airport had been enough to shock her back to reality.

At least they’d had a few weeks at home with him before – well.

The funeral preparations had been a blur, if she’d been honest. Yugi had made the decisions but it had seemed almost impersonal and detached – like he hadn’t really been present. Like he wasn’t really _there_. It had taken an unforgivable amount of time before Anzu had realised what she was seeing: herself, aged somewhere between sixteen and seventeen, dealing with the loss of something she’d once deemed as unchanging and constant as the moon.

‘You’re not okay,’ she’d said to him, as they sat on the living-room sofa one floor above the oddly-silent Game Store.

‘None of us are.’ He’d dragged his arm across his eyes yet again, stared blankly at the turned-off television like it was showing Pegasus’ tape. An awful shudder had passed through his shoulders. ‘I thought – God, it’s stupid, but I thought –’

‘It’s not stupid,’ she’d said, wrapping him tightly in her arms as he broke. It _wasn’t_ stupid. Sugoroku had been as much of a constant presence as the Game Store itself; it still didn’t seem real to admit that he was – he was –

‘I thought he’d beat it, you know?’ Another awful shudder; another choking sob. ‘I know what they said but I thought that – that if anyone could do it – _we_ always did it, you know? No matter how awful things seemed, no matter how hopeless things got, we always pulled through and I thought –’

‘It’s not stupid,’ she’d repeated, even though her voice was shaking. ‘We did always pull through. Things – things always worked out back then. But – _God_ , Yugi, you can’t _duel_ cancer away, and – and _God_ –’

They’d broken together, really. Except this time it was Yugi in the slipstream and not her. This time it was her who made the cups of tea (never quite as good as Surogoku’s, but tea was tea). It was her who dragged him into the odd weekend shift at the store as he slowly worked through his final dissertation, who pushed him into Burger World meals with Jounouchi and car talks with Honda, who quietly promoted Shizuka to an interim manager and hired a casual worker or two while moving to full-time at her own worthless office job for the extra income stream.

It was her. Always her. Because once upon a time it had been him. And no matter what happened, not matter what they faced, they faced it together now.

Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, months turned to years.

Drilling _releves_ drifted further and further down the list of priorities until one day, it simply faded from her mind altogether, without so much as a farewell or goodbye.

* * *

Anzu sets her steaming cup of tea on the vanity countertop and exhales once, heavily.

All this for a pair of broken, worn-out, nearly decade-old pointe shoes. What is she, a teenager again? This is ridiculous. She’s a grown woman now. A grown woman with a fiancé, soon to be husband, with a co-owned business and a full-time day job and a whole wonderful, fulfilling life ahead of her.

She looks hard at her reflection. There’s no tea on her cheeks, thankfully, but good _God_ is her hair a mess today. She can’t help out at the shop looking like this; the customers will think she’s some street urchin, or at the very least some kind of escaped mental patient. Her hair is dry and frizzed, the bags under her eyes are packing a month’s worth of luggage, and it simply will _not_ do. Even if it means she ends up running just a _little_ bit later than she’d promised.

Yugi knows her well enough to know that ten to fifteen minutes late is to be expected. _De rigueur_ , to use the proper parlance (she doesn’t really speak French but more than a decade of ballet means that she’s picked up at least some of the vernacular). And it simply wouldn’t be _her_ if she was actually on time for something. Straightening won’t take long – fifteen minutes, twenty at the outside – which still leaves plenty of time to get distracted unpacking the cupboard and forgetting the time and making it down to the store mid-rush.

Anzu has never been one to pretend she isn’t fully aware of how absolutely atrocious she is at running to schedule.

She plugs the straightener in and flicks the switch dispassionately. The tea begins to cool, steam-cloud diminishing as she waits for the indicator light to turn to green, and she can’t help but stare at her reflection in the fading, worn-out vanity mirror. She looks lost. Scared, even, like she’s seen a ghost instead of long-dead dreams and ambitions. Though really those could be ghosts in their own right and it wouldn’t be as if she knew any different. Not really.

* * *

It feels impossible. It was only months ago that they were in Egypt, she’s sure of it. It _was_ only months ago that they were in Egypt – her tan hasn’t yet totally faded – but the more she thinks on it, the more she remembers that yes, they _were_ in Egypt, but it was only her and Yugi this time and while things had certainly changed again upon their return, it was only due to the glinting ring newly present on Anzu’s hand.

It hadn’t felt _right_ to ask her anywhere else, Yugi explained. He wouldn’t have her if it wasn’t for Egypt. Everything had started here and it just didn’t feel _right_ to ask her to start their _next_ adventure anywhere else.

The numbness had returned, just for a moment. For just a moment Anzu was outside the world again in her own little slipstream, watching the scene from afar with her emotions behind glass.

Then the glass broke and she was crying, properly crying, having nearly bowled Yugi over in her haste to throw her arms around his neck. She was happy and she _was_ happy – overjoyed, really – because she really _did_ love him and she really _did_ want to spend her life with him and oh my _god_ he must have been actually paying attention that time she talked about rose gold being so pretty –

But there was still that tiniest tinge of something cold in her stomach. Not guilt, not disappointment, not upset. Just something cold and heavy and tucked away in a corner, ignored and forgotten, that kept her lying awake in bed long after the post-proposal celebrations should have sent her off to sleep.

Anzu had chalked it up to nervous excitement. To the dreams of the future; to what was to come next. Breaking the news. Engagement parties. Wedding planning. _Life_.

When she was finally able to quiet her thoughts enough to sleep she dreamed of an old musical and red-tinged violet eyes, and was oddly glad the next morning when the only thing she could remember was something about a penguin.

* * *

Anzu stares hard at the mirror, straightener in hand. She could argue she’s just checking her work but she’s spent literally weeks of her life straightening her hair by now; she could do it blindfolded in a storm on a ship in the middle of the ocean and it would come out perfectly. No. She’s staring at the girl – the _woman_ in the mirror, who she once knew so well but today seems a total stranger.

She’s still wearing the faded pink singlet and comfortable jean shorts she always cleans in. Only half her hair’s been straightened and her tea’s still going cold on the counter. She’s here in the pause between moments, the pause between lives, staring hard at the same reflection she always sees and she’s suddenly seized with the awful realisation that in ten, twenty, _fifty_ years’ time she’s still going to be standing here at this mirror. She’s still going to standing here at this exact same mirror, in this exact same bathroom and everything will have changed but _nothing_ will have changed and, God help her, she doesn’t think she can take it.

At twenty-four she’s still young. She’ll look young for years (at least if she takes after her mother) even if she doesn’t feel it. The vanity has all the trappings of her youth – straighteners, make-up, creams and cleansers – and if it wasn’t for the second toothbrush it’d be hard to tell that anyone else lived there at all. Yugi’s things are packed away in drawers; they’re sensibly limited and small, they fit much better than her sprawling collection. Yugi says he doesn’t mind and he really does mean it. He’s good like that.

At thirty, she won’t be alone in front of the mirror; she’ll be propping up a small child, maybe two, helping them to brush their hair or their teeth. There’ll be flecks of toothpaste and spittle on the mirror (children are _not_ tidy creatures but there are more important things to do than clean bathroom mirrors). The trappings of youth will be shut away in drawers and cupboards now, safe from the reach of little fingers. Someone will be laughing – maybe her, maybe the child(ren), definitely Yugi. Yugi will always be laughing.

At forty her beloved collection will finally be back in pride of place but it won’t be hers alone anymore; tweens and teens do so adore playing at adulthood. More often than not she’ll be alone in front of the mirror again now. Sometimes she’ll be doing someone’s hair (dance recitals, school photos, costume parties, family outings, first dates). Sometimes Yugi will be there, brushing his teeth as they discuss the shop’s finances and schooling costs and all the other things family life brings in place of international travel to solve ancient mysteries and save the world. But life will be busy and there will be so many things clamouring for her attention that she won’t have the luxury of pausing in front of a faded bathroom mirror on her own for very long.

At fifty she’ll almost always be alone in front of the mirror again. The straightener will have gone off to live with one of the children (she won’t have used it outside of special occasions in the last several years; she won’t mind too much), along with half of her make-up and several of the cleansers. In their places will be night-creams and hand moisturisers and all the other things that she never understood her mother wanting until recently, when the tiny little lines of a well-lived life stopped disappearing with her smiles. Yugi will still say he doesn’t mind and he still really will mean it. He’ll still be good like that.

At sixty she’ll be in front of the mirror less and less. This is partly because there’ll be small children around once again ( _grandchildren_ , if she can believe it) and thus visits and trips and entertainment are in order instead of lengthy pauses in front of a faded bathroom mirror. It won’t be all that faded, not really; the bathroom will have been redone at least once, maybe twice, but it will certainly be far from fresh because the Game Store building itself will be so much older than it once was. Just like Yugi, just like her.

At seventy Yugi will be there more often once again – his black hair faded to grey (he’ll have stopped dying it years ago; it will be too much to maintain amongst children and teenagers and businesses), his own boyish youthfulness faded alongside her own. There’ll be people in to work the shop more and more now; he just won’t have the energy he used to and his back will be worn out from years of lifting boxes and children and grandchildren. Even though it clearly pains him to be slowing down he will say it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because he still has Anzu. His smile will be from his heart and it will reach all the way to his eyes, just like it always has and always does and always will.

At twenty-four Anzu flings her hair straightener into the bathroom mirror like a frisbee, shattering her reflection along with any future reflections that might have followed it.

Shards fly everywhere – into the sink, across the floor, into her tea – and as they fall around her she finds herself thinking that it’s going to be such a mess to clean up. _Such_ a mess to clean up. Such an Anzu thing to do, to react with fire and passion and drive and then clean up the mess quietly once all was said and done. Such an Anzu thing to do, such a _stupid_ thing to do. And for what? Another mirror will take its place, just as faded and worn as that one, and what will she do then? Throw another straightener at it for daring to reflect what it sees?

Anzu sinks to the floor, where she sits quietly amongst the glittering fragments of her future, with half-straightened hair and a cold cup of tea left on the vanity as the faint noises of the shop below continue unabated. She sits amongst the shards until her eyes are no longer red and the tear-tracks on her cheeks have dried. Then, and only then, does she leave to fetch the dustpan. She's only ten minutes late to help out with the rush.

Later, well after the rush has finished, she tells Yugi that she merely dropped her straightener and in her hurry to catch it, swatted it straight into the mirror. Yugi doesn’t get upset, he merely laughs; it’s a very Anzu thing to do, he says, and the mirror is easily separated from the vanity anyway so it’s simple to replace. As long as she’s okay, everything is fine.

As long as she’s okay.

Everything is fine.

* * *

‘You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,’ Yugi says, his fingers tracing gentle circles on the back of her hand as they lie in bed. His breath is warm and familiar against the back of her neck – that familiar warmth that promises safety from the big wide world outside his arms. Such a shame that it’s the body _in_ his arms that brings trouble tonight. ‘Is everything all right?’

Somehow she keeps the hitch out of her breath. ‘Just a lot of thinking,’ she says. Carefully. ‘You know – sometimes your mind grabs onto something stupid and just runs with it.’

He chuckles. ‘Absolutely. Anything I can help with?’

There’s no teasing in his voice. There’s no subtle grind against her back, no implications or insinuations or anything that would justify the churning of her stomach. It’s Yugi. It’s her fiancée, soon to be husband, being his normal caring self. _God_ , she doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve _him_.

‘Not really, I think. It’s just…’

‘Just?’

She can be honest with him. He’s her best friend, has been for years. But being honest with him requires being honest with herself and Anzu doesn’t know if she can do that just yet. If she can do that, ever. ‘Did you ever think that this was where it’d all end up? Like – from where everything used to be?’

He pauses. The tracing on the back of her hand doesn’t, though. ‘Not really,’ he finally admits. For a moment Anzu’s heart soars, but then he continues with, ‘though I have to admit, I don’t think I’d want it to have gone any differently. Well – maybe a _little_ differently.’ His voice softens. ‘Though I guess that’s part and parcel of growing up. People change. People – people move on.’ They both know who and what he’s really talking about, but neither of them will say it.

Out of habit her fingers snake to intertwine with his. It’s wrong that she doesn’t really mean it but she’s always been the comforter, always been the supporter, even when she’s the one falling apart at the seams.

‘What about you?’ he asks. There’s nothing accusatory in his tone. Nothing judgemental. Pure honest curiosity, like this is just a normal bedtime conversation, like Anzu hasn’t died a hundred different times already today. ‘Is this where you ever thought you’d be?’

No. _God_ , no. Not here, not with him, not with a nine-to-five timewaster or a broken bathroom mirror or a single cardboard box with worn-out pointe shoes or – or _any_ of it. ‘Not really,’ she says.

‘Would you have wanted it to go differently?’

She could be honest. She really could. It’s _Yugi_ ; he’s sat through so many of her sob-fests that she’s surprised he’s not part handkerchief by now. Yugi’s understanding and patient and so many other things that she’s never deserved – so many other things she’s wanted, but not _really_ wanted, just only kind of wanted because they were nice and familiar and easy instead of risky or different or difficult. Yugi will listen and talk calmly and make her feel a colossal fool for being such a mess (but he won’t _mean_ to make her feel foolish – it’s _Yugi_ – there’s just something about his calmness and rationale that makes all her passion and fire seem so childish by comparison). Yugi will rub her back and stroke her hair even if his own stupid heart’s breaking because of her and dear _God_ she doesn’t deserve it.

Tomorrow she could splurge on a brand-new bathroom vanity, one with enough drawers for all her make-up and hairpins and cleansers because really, the bathroom could do with some brightening up and if she’s going to be dancing properly again she really will need the storage room. Tomorrow she could pull out the pair of worn-out pointe shoes and spruce them up, re-lace them with bright fresh ribbons and drill _releves_ for real as she finishes clearing out the bottom of the cupboard. She could call the number on the advertisement and head down to the youth centre for an interview; she’d be a shoe-in for the role and then there’d be classes to plan and routines to choreograph and she’s older now, sure, but there’s always off-main shows looking for rising stars to fill the gaps and maybe – just _maybe_ – that natural talent that Mme Aiko had talked about would be worth something to someone after all.

Tomorrow she’ll call around to find the best price on a new bathroom mirror because they really need to be saving for the future and she really can’t justify the extra space just for a desk job. Tomorrow she’ll finish cleaning out the bottom of the cupboard and she’ll throw away the pair of worn-out pointe shoes because they’re not even worth donating at this point, even with a bit of spit and polish. She’ll bin the advertisement for a part-time dance teacher at the local youth centre because the store will need all hands on deck when the new release comes out, and then there’s the wedding a few months after that, and then there’ll be the shop and children and schooling and ten-twenty-fifty-forever years of broken mirrors and faded, tucked-away dreams given up in favour of all the little things that had only really stopped her because it was easier – safer – than convincing herself they didn’t.

‘No,’ Anzu says quietly, ‘I wouldn’t have wanted it to go any differently, either.’

_say something, I’m giving up on you_

**Author's Note:**

> [Long, wanky, semi-inebriated, note removed 2/11/20. TLDR: maybe the decision to give up is a mistake, maybe it's for the best. Who knows?]


End file.
